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I I I I I i 














M C M X V I I 

Copyright, 1917 


To My Wife, 

Glennie Lane McLaren, 

whose wise counsel and good cheer 

have been a constant service of 

inspiration and encouragement 

this book is dedicated 



While it may seem impossible to credit all the triumphs 
attributed to *Joan of Arc, yet upon the basis of authentic 
history, one must conclude that she was one of the most 
wonderful beings of modern times and the greatest young 
woman the world has known; one of those inspired of God 
and raised up for the purpose achieved. 

To charge her cruel treatment to the Catholic church 
the only church existent in those dark, tragic times would 
be unfair. For men like Winchester of England and Cau- 
chon of France were not fair representatives of the church of 
even those distant, brutal days. And it must be remembered 
that the same church afterwards reversed the sentence of the 
"holy" court and denounced the men who pronounced it. 
Indeed, the Catholic world has exceeded the Protestant in its 
denunciation of the trial and martyrdom of the holy Maid 
and the church has sainted her to its honor and praise. 



I 3 

II 5 

III 13 

IV 20 

V 30 

VI 35 

VII 38 

VIII 46 


I 49 

II 52 

HI 59 

IV 71 































There seemed to be no hope for bleeding France 
The hosts of Britain were entrenched within 
Her gates, her strongholds in their iron grasp; 
Her dauphin, Charles, erroneously called "King" 
A hunted fugitive, concealed away; 
The ancient crown of Dagobert soon to 
Adorn a foreign brow, and dying France 
To live, if live at all, the vassalage 
Of that proud, wicked King and hated power. 
Shall such indeed become the fate of France? 
Shall her brave sons surrender to the foe 
And live without a nation or a name? 
O wretched people in thy sorry plight! 
No army, standing, leadership, of means. 
The powerful enemy at Orleans* gates. 
scattered, trembling sheep midst ravening wolves! 
Alas! what hope for thee, so shamefully 
Betrayed and sold by coward leaders in 
Exchange for Britain's honors and her gold? 
From human standpoint, not a hope for France; 
From any other, she would look for none. 
r J?ar off in lone Domremy of Lorraine, 
A gentle maid was watching o'er her flock. 
In deep distress of soul for stricken France, 
The maid betook her to the Druid Tree. 
Her life was pure and sweet and lovely, like 
To the fragrant clover 'neath her feet; 
Gentle and blameless, as the lambs she led. 
Array' d in simple garb of shepherdess , 



A h^ly purpose in her deep blue eyes 
Bedim d with tears of grief ", yet shining with 
The light of hope. Ah! who e'er dreamed 
Of such a soul concealed in maiden form? 
Such holy yearning, with its pent up power? 

I wonder why my God, she said, has put 
Such spirit in his helpless shepherd maid, 
This woe divine that wounds my aching breast; 
This desperate passion, that so frets my life? 

if my strength were equal to this will! 
If it could match the holy passion, which 
My spirit feels, I'd ride on wing'd steed 

And with my flaming sword, strike to the death, 
Those wicked, ruthless British foes of France! 
Ah ! yes I hear it is the bleating of 
My sheep, my tender lambs calling their Jeanne. 

1 so neglect them to come here and pray 
And wake my father's wrath in their neglect. 
Forgive thy child, O! Father God, who thus 
Forsakes her flock and comes to linger here, 
Commune with spirits and to council thee, 
To vainly wonder why her God he does 
Not do her will. Forgive, O Lord, if wrong. 

Ah little lamb! Torn with thorns and bleeding 
I will bind up thy wounds. O, dost thou know 
My love for thee, dear lamb, looking with thy 
Pain-moistened eyes so sweetly into mine? 
Dear lamb, so grateful for the kindness done 
A kiss, my sweet-breathed child; take of my milk. 
Now comes thy fleecy dame; she calls for thee. 
Methinks there's tears of love in her kind voice. 
Perhaps thou, little lamb, art bleeding France, 
And the Great Shepherd, who sees all her wounds 
And feels her pain, will come, bind up those wounds, 
And soothe her pain and she will then become 
The sweeter and the better for them all. 



REMI: The day is dark, Marie, for bleeding France. 

I fear her sun goes down in cloud and gloom. 
The soil our fathers in their freedom till'd 
Is being trampled by a foreign foe 
We're now a vassalage of Britain if 
We're not her slaves, galling beneath her yoke. 
The ancient crown of Dagobert adorns 
A foreign brow, while he, its lawful heir, 
Must roam in secret through his own domain 
Or crouch like to a hunted weasel in 
His royal den. 

MARIE: I know, dear Remi, that the day is dark. 

But then, the darkest hour oft hails the dawn. 
We must be brave; we must have faith in God, 
As our good fathers did. 

REMI: God's but a name, what more, in wicked France? 

A name for use in curses and in creeds. 
Except for priests, who even speaks of faith ? 

MARIE: God lives and reigns, Remi, aye, e'en in France, 

And multitudes do put their trust in him. 

REMI: If God is living yet in France, he sleeps. 

Behold eternal wars! When were they naught? 
Murder of mothers and their little ones; 
Innocence outraged by beasts in garb of 
Men; villages around us are in flames. 
And soon our time must come. If I were God, 
Would I permit such things? Not I! Not I! 
O, would I were your fanci'd God one day! 







I'd hurl those English devils down to hell 

And rescue France! Poor France! she needs a God, 

But such a God as true brave man would be. 

If Remi, he were God, he'd kill the English; 
If Burgundy were God, he'd slay the French, 
And if some Spaniard, he were God, he'd kill 
Them all. I'm glad my God, he's none of these. 
Trust, man ! and be no shallow infidel. 

Shallow indeed! 

Who are shallow, as the superstitious? 
Infidel? That's to be listed in the 
Best of company, in which you well-nigh 
Did belong yourself some months ago. 

Ah! well I know. But holy Name! 

That angel Maid, she came to me. 

You mean Jeanne d'Arc? 
Jeanne d'Arc indeed; the Maid who talks with God. 

Rather with witches at the Druid Tree. 

I 've seen her sitting there with folded hands 

In dreamy meditation hour by hour 

In that enchant'd spot, where witches and 

The spirits of the damned have their abode. 

The man who chops that nuisance down, he'll bless 


The Ladies' Tree ! Name of God ! 
Who'd be that wicked man? What sweeter hours 
Did childhood ever know, than those in which 
We all join'd hands and danced and sang around 
That Tree, the song we never can forget, 
L'Arbre F6e de Bourlemont. The song, the 


Memory, which cheers the passing soul in 
Some strange land unto the present day. 

REMI: You're overmuch religious, poor Marie. 

Good Pierre Fonte, whose prayers once drove the 
Witches from the Tree, were not more so. 

MARIE : Ah ! do you say ? 

A rare fault in these wicked times, Remi. 

REMI: If Jeanne were mine 

She'd give more heed unto her flocks and less 
Unto that wretched Tree. I pity Jacques, 
Poor fool! 

MARIE: That's your mistake, Remi Batice! 

Jacques never had so dear and good a child, 
At wheel and distaff name one more like Jeanne. 
What time she lingers at the Tree by day, 
She toils the longer to restore at night. 
What does not prosper in that maiden's hands? 
Who is more pure and good and sweet than Jeanne ? 
Too religious? Ah! blessed fault indeed 
For skeptic, wicked France. 

REMI: You're under those enchantments too, Marie. 

MARIE: Small matter what you think or say, Remi, 

Since God has set his seal upon the Maid. 
Some day she will, aye and ere long 

REMI: What will she do? 

MARIE: She'll rescue France! 

REMI: Jeanne d'Arc! How? 

MARIE: Have you forgotten that blest prophecy? 

"Out of Lorraine, beside the Ladies* Tree, 
Shall come a maid, Savior of France"? 

REMI: Well what of that, Marie? 

MARIE: Jeanne d'Arc, she is that Maid of God! 

REMI: Mother of Christ, Marie! 

Have you, too, lost your mind? Little Jeanne d'Arc 
The shepherdess! She will deliver France! 
Ha, ha, ha! Jeanne d'Arc the timid maid 
The one who faints away at sight of blood 
She, face Great Britain's hosts? My God, Marie! 

'Twas well it came. 

A knock upon the door. 





Hauviette, my dear, come in, come in! 

And thou, Gerard! Home from the wars, sweet boyi 
Unto God's holy Mother be the praise! 
Wounded and lame, but better than we heard. 
They told us that our dear Gerard must die, 
And now our eyes behold him in our home. 
So good of Hauviette to bring Gerard! 

Yes, Aunt Marie, I have been wounded sore. 
The brutal British bullets pierc'd my breast, 
Their blades have hacked my body and let out 
My blood. But recently I have been heal'd. 

Heal'd, Gerard? Praise God for that! 

1 wonder how, brave boy? 

I wonder how myself, Gerard, 

The sturdy husband queried with surprise. 
GERARD: You would not believe me, so I will not tell. 

REMI: I am no Sphinx. What Remi sees he believes. 

GERARD: They took me to the holy wells beside 

The Druid Tree. I drank those waters day 
By day. They're healing me. 

REMI : Cool native air, home food, and sparkling springs 

Are healing you. Not superstition, boy. 

GERARD: I told you, Remi, that you'd not believe. 

REMI : And do you believe a thing like that, Gerard ? 

GERARD: One must believe, when nothing else will do. 

MARIE: Praise God, Gerard! exclaimed Marie; but how 

In your condition, did you reach the wells? 

GERARD: Our angel leader, aunt why need you ask? 

She came with Pierre and Margot, Etienne, 
Mengette and other young folk of the place. 
They carried me in turn, clear to the wells. 

MARIE: Just like sweet Jeanne! she leads in all that's good. 

REMI : Much better than she leads her sheep, Marie. 

What news comes from the front, Gerard? 
That would I hear. Is there no hope for France ? 

GERARD: Bad news, Remi! so bad I grieve to tell. 

REMI: Bad? Well, we're used to that, my boy. Say on. 












A treaty has been signed at Troyes between 
The English, French and Burgundians, 
And by it, France betrayed unto the foe. 

Betrayed? How so, Gerard? 

It marries Henry of England, Butcher 
Of Agincourt, to Catherine of France. 

Name of God! Another scheme of Burgundy's 
And_that she-devil queen, our Isabel! 

Who brought this news, Gerard ? 

Etienne Roze, who came with lightning 
Speed, waving a black flag. 

A black flag! Sign of bad news indeed. 

Where is Etienne? 

I think he's over at Jeanne d'Arc's. 

At Jeanne's of course, they all go there to speak 
Their sorrow or their joy. 

To see the girls, Marie, that's why they go. 

Well may they go to see such girls, Remi. 
Margot, she is engaged to Etienne; 
Pierre, he is engaged to sweet Mengette, 
But Jeanne looks not with favor upon men. 
She lives so constant in the spirit world. 

She cheats the spirit world and sheepfold too 
Out of much time, to spend with Louis by 
The Druid Tree. 

Louis de Contes he is her favorite boy 

Although her senior by ten years, I believe. 
And yet, Jeanne d'Arc will never choose a man ! 

REMI: Why not, Marie? 

MARIE: Already she has chosen God. 

REMI: Bah! woman, silly nonsense that. 

To no French girl, will God do for a man. 
What say you to that, Gerard? 

GERARD: Your good wife, she has spoken truly, sir. 

Jeanne's thoughts and life are in the spirit realm. 

MARIE: The Lord be praised, Gerard! He sent you here. 

What think you of Jeanne d'Arc? 

GERARD: She is the Maid of God; the one foretold. 

MARIE: Gerard! 

GERARD: I believe it, Aunt Marie! 

Aye, with all my soul. 

REMI: Then Jeanne d'Arc, she will rescue France? 

GERARD: She will, Remi, she will! 
REMI: How? 

GERARD: God has told her, not me. 

REMI : Gerard, I honor one so brave. 

Yet some strange phantom has obscured your mind; 
Your wounds, poor boy, I believe have weakn'd you. 
I'll see Jacques d'Arc this night. His child, she must 
Be saved. 


GERARD: Useless, Remi. I have talked with Jacques. 

REMI: Of this affair ? 

GERARD: Aye, this same thing. 

REMI: When did you talk with him? 

GERARD: This very day and yester-night. 

REMI: Does Jacques d'Arc credit the fairy tales? 

GERARD: I know not as to fairy tales, nor yet 

How far as to the truth. I only know 
He believes in part and waits God's will. 

REMI: Then he is not the wise old Jacques he was 

It's but a fortnight since I talked with him. 
In grief he spoke of Jeanne's mysterious flights; 
How late at night and early dawn the child 
Creeps forth as one by some strange thing possess'd, 
To hold communion with the mountain air 
Or sit in dreamy musings 'neath that Tree 
Where evil spirits have their dark abode, 
And witches with the fairies congregate. 
My God! if Jeanne, she too becomes a witch! 
O! Marie! Gerard! Hauviette! What means 
This awful thing? I'll go to Jacques ! His child, 
She shall be saved! 

MARIE: Ah! Remi, she who like her Lord, 

Came to save others, cannot save herself. 



Poor France! 

Shis groaning 'neath Great Britain s iron heels; 
She trembles y neath the mightiest hosts like some 
Frail floor, beaten with many flails; and yet 
Their dauphin, whom some call " King" finds pleasure in 
His stricken people's pain. 

Go quickly, O, good D'Alencon to Charles, 
He seldom fails to lend an ear to thee. 
Implore him as becomes a king and man, 
That he come bravely forth and fight for France 
Or France is doomed. 

D ' A LE NCO N : Tis useless, La Hire, 

Charles will not leave the castle of Chinon. 

LA HIRE: Not leave his castle in a time like this? 

Curs'd be the king who thus seeks pleasure in 
His country's peril, gloats o'er wine cups, 
Riddles and stale jokes, with coarsest men and 
Tinted females of his vulgar taste. 

D'ALENCON: Speak not so harshly of your King, La Hire 
My Cousin Charles has cause for losing heart. 
With lawful right to reign, in doubt through his 
Disloyal mother's black and vile career, 
With treasury empty as a fairy's dream, 
And mortgaged to the box that holds his snuff, 
How can he rally the discouraged hosts 
And wrest the crown of France from Britain's grasp ? 


LA HIRE: Who'd be a king, must be a man! 

Let Charles come forth, or, by the bones of God! 
'Twill mean his death. 

Louis: O! Jeanne! 

I thought the matter over yester-night 
We've been deluded and mistaken, dear. 
The cause of France is desperate, her hope vain 
It has been so since Agincourt. 

JOAN: The hope of France it's vain? Why tell me that? 

Louis: Because she's mostly now in Britain's grasp; 

Our King is bankrupt and conceal'd away; 
He has no soldiers and he cannot fight. 
And though he may abide with favorite fools 
In that, his meager realm a little time, 
He will escape when closely pursued, and 
France shall fall! 

JOAN: But France will rise again. 

Louis: France rise! with Britain's army on her back? 

JOAN: She'll cast it off! She'll trample it in the dust! 

Louis: Cast it off! Trample it in the dust! 

And she without an army, means or power. 
The mighty foe e'en now at Orleans' walls. 

JOAN: God's Maid, she comes! 

Comes clothed with power divine; 
Comes with flaming sword bath'd in heaven; 
Comes to destroy the ruthless foes of France. 

Ere yonder moon rounds out its beauteous orb 
Or yet the golden corn hangs ripe and low, 
No English feet shall tread this sacred soil, 
Nor English warhorse quench his thirst in the 
Clear waters of our dear Loire. 

Louis: Impossible, brave Jeanne! 

Unless the very God, he takes a hand. 

JOAN: He'll take a hand! 

He'll come in his own Maiden cloth'd in power; 

The fire of his hot anger will descend 

Its flaming tongue shall lick with burning zeal 

And rend with ruthless ire the foes of France. 

He'll use this weak thing to confound the strong. 

Before her shining sword by angels given, 

Her snow-white banner with the fleur-de-lis, 

Proud Burgundy, betrayer of our land, 

Shall fall I And that high-handed, God-defying 

Scourge that Talbot, traitor, fiend Salsbury, 

Lional, and their low accomplices, 

Shall flee in fright, as timid hares before 

The hunter's horn. The God of battles he 

Will go forth and by a gentle Maid 

He'll rescue France and crown her dauphin, King. 

Then Jeanne, she went apart and kneeling said: 

Send thou, O Lord, deliverance to France. 
Poor France! sore, crush'd beneath a foreign yoke. 
O Lord, thou hast been with us in the past, 
And, but for thee we must have perished. 
Come now to us, as thou didst come unto 
Thy people in the days of old, bringing 
Deliverance, when they were few and weak. 
Bless thou our gentle dauphin; crown him King. 
Make France a nation great to serve her God 

And bless mankind forever. Amen. 
Then fell a shadow like a fleecy cloud 
From it a form in radiant beauty came. 
The Maid's calm face , and rude apparel too, 
Were glorious in that transforming light. 
Before that vision pure, majestic in 
The solemn gloom, the Maid sank down to earth 
In fear and woe. 

ARCH. MICH.: I am Archangel Michael, spake the voice, 

O, Maid of God, fear not. Go bravely forth. 
Deliver France and crown thy King at Rheims! 

Slowly she rose, yet kneeling, softly spake: 

JOAN: O, holy angel, I am but a child 

And knowest not the dreadful art of war. 
How can I leave my parents and my sheep? 

ARCH. MICH.: I will be with thee; thou hast not to fear, 
The angel, he replied. 


Farewell, thou dear Domremy of Lorraine 
Farewell ye mountains, vales and crystal streams; 
Ye trees and shrubs and beauteous blooming flowers, 
Which I have planted, nurtured and so loved. 
Sweet scenes in which my childhood days were spent- 
My sheep, my lambs, I leave to other care 
My quiet fields for those of war and blood 
My shepherd's horn for bugle's call to fight 
Shears for sword, sheepfold for camp, my humble 
Flock, to lead the army of poor France 'gainst 
Britain's hosts. Dear God, my witness, this is 
Not thy Maid's own choice. That no ambition 
For the battlefield or strife ere fired her breast 


But now she yields her will to thine; she hears 
Thy voice alone. Speak to my dauphin's 
Soul, O Lord, that he may see the light, and 
Know the Maid has come from God. 

Louis: Good father Jacques, do not oppose thy child, 

Do not lay any hindrance in her way; 
She is the Maid of God! 

JACQUES: How do you know that, Louis de Contes? 
My child may be the victim of a witch; 
Perchance some evil spirit of the air. 
Send her to me. 







Jeanne, I demand to know 
What evil thing has so possessed thy mind; 
Why, with such actions, wilt thou grieve us so? 

Tis not my choice, good father. 
God calls! His child, she must obey. 

Obey in what and how, my Jeanne? 
To fight for France; to crown my dauphin King. 
You fight for France! 

A maid and child! 

The voices, father, 

They have told me to. 

How did they tell you, Jeanne, to fight for France ? 







1 1*1 

To raise an army of brave men 
To fight and conquer Britain and to crown 
My dauphin King at Rheims. 

Holy Mother of God's Son! 
My child, she's lost her mind. 
This once for all I warn you, Jeanne, you stay 
From that damned Druid Tree. 

Nay, father. For 'tis 
My disobedience to the voices, which 
Has lost so many battles to poor France. 

Those voices, they deceive you, Jeanne. 
The voice that bids a peasant child, a young 
And tender maid, who, than a shepherd's horn 
Has heard no harsher sound, who never grasp'd 
A sword's hilt or e 'en from distant height 
Looked on the hell of war, to clothe herself 
In male attire and join an army of 
Coarse, vulgar men, that voice is not from God! 

Is this so shameful, that he bids me do? 
Is this a crime so dark that I obey 
His voice? Is this 

Tis not God's voice! 

The voice that seeks to lead you on, is naught 
Itself, but fraud and sorcery. 

Each one must be his judge of what's divine 
I'll be my judge. 

You'll now give ear to voices that deceive. 
Hereafter sit and spin in mournful grief 
Beside the fire; become a mock, a sport 
For wicked scoffers to your poor life's end. 
Ere you join that army, I'll drown my child! 

JOAN: This once, good father, suffer me to tell 

Thee how it came to pass and then I must 
Away. The voices, they are calling me 
Aye, calling clearly for their Jeanne. 

'Twas evening and our little town was still 

Nature and man and beast had found repose. 

Its narrow streets grew broad and luminous 

Pale poplars, like trees of Paradise. 

The winding stream its banks all billowy 

With beauteous flowers a river of pure gold, 

Its molten beauty in the serpent light 

Gleaming and flowing 'mid trees and vines unknown. 

Wee, thatched homes had risen to mansions bright 

Domremy was a city beautiful! 

From battlements I heard clear bugles blow 

And saw the mighty hosts array 'd for war, 

The neighing steeds, the chariots of God, 

Bright helmets flashing in the moon's clear light. 

I saw Archangel Michael cloth'd in power 

I heard his voice which spake to me and said: 

"Jeanne d'Arc, go forth! For I, who called the Christ 

From Nazareth, to save the world from sin, 

Now calleth thee to save thy France from death." 

My earnest pleadings were of no avail. 

There stood my gallant men awaiting me, 

Their limbs of oak, arms, like bands of steel. 

There pranced my snow-white horse, my shining sword 

Flash'd like a cross of jewels in the light 

Saw my brave hosts advance with martial tread, 

I leading them, with banner pure and white 

Like angel wings, and lovely fleur-de-lis 

Sacred, triumphant, as it bore inscribed 

The holy names, Jehsus Maria! 



CHARLES: How fares the faithful, O good D'Alencon? 
What tidings from the front? 

D'ALENCON: If God, he has not pity on our land 

If he saves not the King, both must be lost. 
Strong, savage hosts appear on every hand. 
Artillery and implements of war 
From many lands, with many tongues they come, 
Burgundy, Liege, Namur and Luxemburg. 
From thrifty Holland and from prosperous Ghent, 
Zealand, and regions of the icy North 
They flock as eagles round their hapless prey. 
While traitors some, to country and to King, 
Shall France supinely yield with ne'er a fight, 
Her life, her honor and her glorious name? 
Arise, O cousin Charles! proclaim thy will! 
Prove to thy people that thou art their King. 

CHARLES: "My people" sayest thou, good D'Alencon? 

Assure me that sweet boon. Remove the taint 
Of doubt, from royal sire to son; wipe out 
This wretched stain of foul disgrace and I 
Will fight for France. Aye, fight for France, 
Though now it seemeth useless in a cause 
That's lost. 

D'ALENCON: Why lost, Your Majesty? 

CHARLES: Why lost? In vain I call for troops and men. 
The people flee from me as stricken sheep 
From a pursuing wolf. 

Then angry Dunois spake and said: 








God pity France, with such a King as thou! 
A recreant monarch who forsakes himself; 
A coward when his country is in peril. 

Restrain thy slanderous tongue, Dunois, 
Or by the ancient crown of Dagobert 
I'll teach you that I am the King. 

Thou art the dauphin, who might be the King, 
And need I warn thee of thy kingdom's plight? 
Need I rehearse the tales of death and woe ? 
The red, insweeping tide of Britain's wrath 
Nor dost thou bravely rise with sword in hand 
To rid thy realm of those fierce robber-foes, 
But linger in soft dalliance, begirt 
With knaves, with jugglers, with tinted dames 
And troubadors, while siege is raging e 'en 
At Orleans' gates. 

What boldness this! 

'Tis treason on thy tongue! I'll answer thee 
With steel! 

Nay, hear his warning, O my cousin Charles. 
Faithful the wounds inflicted by a friend. 
Take heed I pray and act accordingly. 

I'm helpless, D'Alencon, 
Aye, helpless as a suckling babe. They will 
Not rally, while such doubt endures. God lift 
The veil! Reveal the naked truth! Am I 
The King, O Lord, am I the King? 

Take heart, Your Majesty, 
A messenger with happy tidings comes. . 



From Orleans and the battle's front? 







Nay, from Domremy in Lorraine. 

Domremy in Lorraine ! 

Ye gods ! what message from a place like that 
Can be of interest to the King? 

Your Majesty, it's from the Maid of God 
Conveyed to thee by good De Metz himself. 

Who in the devil is this Maid of God ? 

A hoax, a fiction, a humbug or myth? 

I have a missive now from such an one 

A maid that's called of God. She claims to save 

Her country and her King. She'll point me out, 

So she avers, in whatsoe 'er disguise 

Or place I care to choose for such a test. 

I heed not such vagaries of the crazed. 

Your Majesty will hear at least 
What these, his trusted counsellors will say. 

What then of this strange Maid, De Metz? 
Speak briefly, as the thing demands. 

Thou'st heard, O King, the prophecy of old: 

"Out of Lorraine beside the Ladies' Tree 

Shall come the Maid of God, Saviour of France!" 

What's it to me? 

I 've heard the tale, De Metz 

This one, she is the Maid of God! 

How know you that? 
Archangel Michael hath appeared to her; 

Appeared and spoken at the Druid Tree. 

CHARLES: The Druid Tree! I've heard of it that place 
Where fairies dance and witches congregate? 

DE METZ: Hear first the things she has achiev'd, O King, 
Then judge her as thou wilt. 
Her wisdom and her daring deeds have won 
Her case before the court 
And Governor of Vaucouleurs. 

CHARLES: You mean not Sir Robert de Baudricourt? 

DE METZ: Aye, Your Majesty, and 'tis that grim old 

Warrior who commends the Maid to thee. 

CHARLES: He does? 

DE METZ: Yes, and without reserve. 

CHARLES : Where is this Maid of God so called ? 

DE METZ: From Chinon, but six leagues. 

CHARLES: Six leagues from Chinon? 

How reached she there in face of powerful foes? 

DE METZ: She's come through dangers great and perilous; 
She has won signal victories all the way. 
In various towns the people have equip 'd 
The Maid with horses, men and arms. 

CHARLES: What say you of her, D'Alencon? 

D'ALENCON: She is the Maid of God! 

CHARLES: And thou, De Metz? 


DE METZ: Tis even so, Your Majesty. 

CHARLES: You really believe this thing? 

DE METZ: With all my soul. 

CHARLES: If 'tis not so, 

Some strange enchantment sure hath cast its spell 
O'er all the royal court. 

D'ALENCON: A messenger brings news of great import. 
CHARLES: Communicate the message to the King. 

D'ALENCON: Your Majesty, La Hire returns 

With tidings from the field. 

CHARLES: In God's name, bid him now approach. 




Forth came that great fierce General, 
Clad in the heavy armor of his time. 
Could such a mighty warrior as he 
Feel slightest interest in a peasant maid? 

What tidings, friend? 
Is hope in vain? 

Never, my King, was there such cause for hope. 

You jest, La Hire. 
Heaven forbid! 

Speak then, explain. 
What can it mean? Break, break the strain. 

LA HIRE: Thou, O King, hast won a victory! 

CHARLES: A victory! Me? What music is thy speech. O would 
Thy words were true ! 

LA HIRE: Prepare thyself, O King, for greater news. 

Lo! the Archbishop who has come with 
Dunois, straight from Rheims, he will explain. 

BISHOP: It's verified, Your Majesty, and more. 

Our cause is to rejoice and not to weep 
Since heaven itself has come to our relief. 

CHARLES: Explain, good Bishop, lest the King explode. 

BISHOP: Our Sir Knight Raoul 

With the King's consent will speak and tell. 

RAOUL: Twas in the valley of the Yonne, 

O King, we met the enemy so fierce 
And strong, all in stout armor clad, and armed 
With swords and spears, swarming like beetles from 
Summer's air, fierce like to ravening wolves. 
Resistance it were madness flight in vain. 
Our stoutest hearts gave way, e 'en our mighty 
General Baudricourt, Knight of Vaucouleurs 
Would have surrendered then and there, but for 
A miracle. Out from the forest's depths, 
On dashing steed of war, a Maid came forth 
A Maid clad in strange armor for the fray. 
Most beautiful she was in face and form; 
A light divine shone on her noble brow. 
Most godlike she, and radiant in grace, 
Her youthful face, her flashing eyes shone with 
A light as from another sun. Her power 

Was like to magic irresistible. 

In clear commanding voice she spake and said: 

" Soldiers and Frenchmen brave, surrender not 

Unto the haughty foe. Your God, he fights 

For you and France. His servant leads the Maid 

Whom he has called. Aye, even though the hosts 

Of Britain were as countless as the leaves, 

They'll flee as Pharaoh's minions fled before 

His servant and his wonder-working rod." 

Then suddenly, as if by power unseen, 

Our soldiers turned upon the countless foe, 

Who stood transfixed, gazing, with awe o'erpower'd, 

As if by some strange miracle, and fled. 

Those who resisted, fell in hundreds, slain. 

While France lost not a man. 

CHARLES: 'Tis wonderful! A miracle, if true. 

If true, I say, the victory was God's. 

RAOUL: His servant's too, Your Majesty. 

The army, which as great La Hire has said: 
"Would shudder at the coming of the foe, 
Will now march fearless to the gates of hell." 

CHARLES: When will this Maid approach Chinon? 

RAOUL: She comes tonight 

Behold the multitudes awaiting her. 

CHARLES: Is she the cause for all this loud acclaim? 

RAOUL: Your Majesty, 

The people all but worship her. 

CHARLES: Good friends, show cause why this great one be not 
Received by your King. 


LATREMOILLE: Beware, O Charles! 

Women are cunning, and as dangerous too, 

Warns wily Seigneur de la Tremoille. 

LATREMOILLE: These charlatans are shrewd. 

Some secret, dark conspirator Satan 
Perchance not God, may be this female's guide. 

CHARLES: Satan, do you say? 

LA TREMOILLE: Yes, Satan. Why not? Satan, inspirer 
Of witches and deceiver from of old. 
A humorous vagary inspired of him. 
That this poor, lowly shepherd lass should leave 
Her sheep to ride on battle steed and sweep 
Away this world-power like a tempest, with 
Her helpless troops! Her maiden vanity 
Will melt like snow! She lead an army! She 
To teach our seasoned captains in the art 
Of war! The shadow of its ruthless curse 
Would shrivel up her tender life, as 'twere 
A shrimp upon a gridiron ! 

DE METZ: True, Seigneur, were she that sort of maid, 
But is she not the called of God the one 
Foretold? If not, explain the triumphs she's 
Achieved. Nor is this Maid the first among 
The lowly so raised up. The weak things have 
Been chosen to confound the strong. And he 
Who call'd of old that mighty Shepherd King 
From fold to throne, may so have summon'd her. 

LATREMOILLE: By heaven, De Metz! 

You're in that miracle religious line; 
Moses himself might yield his rod to thee! 

DE METZ: Ah! de la Tremoille 

You're free, I do admit, from such a charge. 

LA TREMOILLE: Supposing, Charles, 

You send your bishops to this Maid let them 
Question and bring her answers unto thee. 

CHARLES: Your counsel seemeth good, Seigneur 

Let it be done. 

Reverend bishops, what of this Maid? 

BISHOP: She hath a message, Your Majesty; but 

Will impart it only to the King. 

CHARLES: And does the Maid refuse the bishops? 
BISHOP: Positively! 

CHARLES : The like was never heard in France ! 
Good bishops, what think you of her? 

BISHOP: She hath a will, Your Majesty. 

CHARLES: That's plain. 

And what do you advise ? 

BISHOP: We advise the King to receive and hear her. 

LATREMOILLE -.Again I warn you, Charles, beware! 

CHARLES: You've heard my bishops 

And my counsellors, de la Tremoille. Shall 
I condemn their judgment spurn their advice? 
My royal Aunt, good Queen Yolande, 
You've been with her. What say you of this Maid? 


YOLANDE: Aye, Charles, I have spent hours with her. 
She's spirit-filled and spirit-led so kind, 
So unassuming and so sweet a voice 
From heaven. The one foretold. Receive her, Charles- 
She brings a message straight from God to thee. 

CHARLES: Good friends, 

It is my duty to receive the Maid. 
If she is not such as she claims to be, 
Or you, my trusted friends, do claim for her, 
Then one hour squandered in a novel way, 
With one hoax less to trouble us. - 
Dunois will take my place upon the throne; 
I in disguise will mingle with the guests. 
Accept her challenge so to find the King. 



It's evening and 
The royal court in light and splendor gleams 
Gleams with its mellow radiance, as 'twere 
Another sun's. Midst gorgeous robes, great names 
Of fame and rank, sweet music and such scenes 
And charms, as royal courts alone display, 
The Maid of God in lowly beauty comes 
Led by great Count Vendome and brilliant train. 
Flambeaux and flashing jewels, the silver 
Trumpets blown by the heralds of the King, 
The pomp and dazzling beauty there display' d, 
All Jailed to discommode that one sent by 
The King of Heaven. Silence reigned supreme. 
All eyes were fixed upon her, as if they'd 
Seen a vision from the sky. They knew the 
Secret. Would she bow to Dunois, robed as king 
And seated on the throne? What moments these! 
She paused, but did not bow. She spoke and said: 

Bastard of Orleans! thou art not the King! 
A seat upon the throne becomes not thee. 
God's Maid is sent unto a mightier one. 

Then turning, she, like some bright spirit, pass'd 
By the ones in brilliant robes array' d 
Until she reached a humbler one, clad in 
More lowly garb. There falling at his feet 
She said: 


Gentle dauphin, I am Jeanne d'Arc, 
The Maid come from Lorraine. I bring to you 






A message from the King of Heaven. God 

Hath pity for you and his people too. 

The angels are praying for you and for them. 

Maid, how knowest thou me? Thou who hast not 
Seen my face or heard my voice. 

I saw thee, gentle dauphin, in the night 
When all around was peaceful, calm and still. 
Thou did'st arise to plead with God in prayer 
That prayer I will reveal to thee, likewise 
The answer thou dost long to know. But not 
In this great presence will I speak. 

Speak, gentle Maid. Alas my secret is 
Not such to these. 

In thy first prayer thou offerd'st up thyself 

In sacrifice for unatoned guilt 

Of other years, which caused this dreadful war. 

Thou, in the second prayer, didst choose 

A humble life with peace, rather than crown 

And throne, with strife. And in the third 

Nay, wondrous Maid. For 
'Tis enough! Thy knowledge is of God, whence 
Thou art come! And since thou art endowed with 
Wisdom more than man's, tell me, divinely 
Guided one, shall I indeed prevail? 

Aye, dauphin, with God and his servant's help; 
Not otherwise. 

What askest thou, O Maid, of me, the King? 

An army of brave men. 

An army, dauphin 








What knoweth thou, a shepherdess, of war? 
Shears are not swords. Leading an army i's 
Not leading sheep. 

Give me an army and I'll give you Orleans; 

And, what is more, I'll crown you King at Rheims! 

O Maid of God, thou knowest not 
The power and fierceness of the foe. How great 
A name is Britain. How small compared is 
France. And I, its more than question 'd King 
Bow'd down in such a low humility. 
See how they tell me, "Thou art not the King!" 

Thou art the dauphin, who shall be King! 
Thou shalt be crown 'd at Rheims! 

At Rheims, you say? 
While Britain's in control of land and sea 
And all the world as well. 

I care not for Great Britain's power! 
Nor all the world besides. I'll lead you through 
The hosts of Britain, Burgundy and hell! 

Maid of God! 

Whose soul speaks in thy voice. The King grants thy 
Request. Tell me the secret of thy power. 

My secret, gentle dauphin, is of God. 
'Twas in my childhood in Domremy of 
Lorraine, I heard men tell, around the fire, 
Of our dear France o'errun by foreign foes; 
Our brilliant Paris to become their prize; 
The crown of Charlemagne that glorious crown 
To rest upon a brow not born of us; 
Our people chafing 'neath a foreign yoke. 


Then I, a child, in great distress of soul 

Betook me to the Druid Tree. Beneath 

That Tree of sacred name, I earnestly 

Implor'd our God, his holy Mother and 

His Son, that they deliver France and thee. 

'Twas in the twilight's deepening gloom, when peace 

And beauty were upon the quiet world, 

The Holy Mother, she appeared and spake 

To me, e'en as Archangel Michael, he 

Had done, aye, many times, and said: "Jeanne, fear 

Thee not, I am the Virgin Mother 

Of the Holy Christ. I've chosen thee. Go 

Forth in God his strength, and crown thy dauphin 

King! Deliver France !" 

"O Holy Mother, I am but a child," 

I pled " ignorant, poor and weak. How can 

So small a one do this, so great a thing?" 

"Remain a virgin pure," she said, "like to 

Myself, and God shall bring to pass his will 

Through thee." 

Her lowly garb transferred, the Queen 

Of Heaven pass'd in radiant beauty from 

My sight. I seem'd a spirit freed from flesh, 

Walking on air. In great humility 

Of soul, yet conscious of some strange new power, 

I went forth to obey. 

CHARLES : O Maid of God ! 

I now appoint thee to command my hosts. 

Take thou this sword of fame, long prov'd in wars 

And lead thy hosts to victory! 

MAID: Nay, gentle dauphin, 

God's servant must decline thy honor'd blade. 
The voices have reveal'd my sword to me. 
'Tis in St. Catherine's churchyard vault, conceal'd 
Within an ancient tomb mid many spoils 


And ruins of great wars. This blade is marked 
By three plain golden links engraven thereon. 
I pray thee, gentle dauphin, that this sword 
Be brought. Also a banner of pure white. 
Upon this banner let the artist paint 
A likeness of the Holy Mother's face 
The Christ Child's too the fleur-de-lis the 
Sacred names, Jehsus Maria. 

CHARLES : Maid of God, 

Every command of thine shall be obey'd. 
Captains, behold your General-in-Chief of 
The Army of France! 

MAID: Holy Bishop, lay thy hands 

In consecration on my head commend 
Me unto him through whom alone his poor 
Young servant can prevail. 



MAID'S LETTER: King of England, Duke of Bedford, 

You lord lieutenants; all of you, falsely 
Call'd Regents of the Kingdom of France. 
I warn you now in God his name, yield up 
The keys of all good towns of France, which ye 
Have taken. Ye arch conspirators in 
Arms, before the walls of Orleans get ye 
Unto your country, by God his command, 
Or we will come upon you with such an 
Ha! ha! as shall be remembered, aye this 
Thousand years. 

Jeanne la Pucelle. 

Jehsus Maria. 


A herald from the King of England. 
Let him enter and let him speak. 

HERALD: Where is this witch of France, 

Who calls herself the " Maid of God"? 

MAID: Herald of England, I am the Maid of God! 

HERALD: O thou unvirgin'd, common, vulgar wench 

In garb of man, I bring thee 

D'ALENCON: Silence! thou coward herald of England's 
Usurping Prince! Not in the presence of 


A knight of France, shalt thou insult 
God's Maid. 






Nay, worthy D'Alencon, 
Permit their well-bred servant to give vent 
To England's spirit and her King's, which will 
Ere long achieve their own defeat. Courteous 
Herald, what august personage is he 
Who speaks with such a tongue as thine? 

Impudent enchantress and deluder 

Of thy breed, I speak for His Grace, the Earl 

Of Salsbury, Britain's noblest chief. 

Then you speak 
Not for the living, but for the dead. 

Dead! you say? 

That were good news for France. Tis well the false 
Inspirer of delusions like to thine 
Hath not the power to make them so. Our chief 
Will show the wretch'd France he's much alive 
Ere long, with Orleans in his grasp. 

At Orleans yesterday, your chief, he fell. 

Ye gods! what vague delusions haunt 
Those witch-enchanted minds. For e 'en if such 
A thing were true, how could the news have come 
To thee from Orleans in a day ? 

Herald of England, 

Tis given the Maid of God to see, discern 
And know the things he hath conceal'd from thee, 
Thy King, his lords and his accomplices. 
Therefore if thou encounter not thy dead 
Chief's funeral train on thy return, be these 


And God my witnesses, that I resign 
Command and will return unto my home, 
My staff and sheep, and here be seen no more. 

HERALD: God pity England, should her words prove true! 

And they did. 

MAID: Now, Frenchmen brave, 

In God his name, on to the fight, and on 
To victory! Prove to the mothers who have 
Given you birth those dear old souls who've borne 
The burdens of their dreadful day that their 
Brave sons, who bleed and die for France, they do 
Not bleed and die in vain. Who fights for God, 
He wins, who fights for France, he fights for God! 
Behold your banner white as angel's robe, 
With fleur-de-lis, image of the Virgin 
Mother, the Holy Child. This banner wins! 
Vive la France! Victoire! La France sauvee! 












Lieutenant, why this disobedience of my command? 

General, the project seem'd impossible 
To those acquainted with the art of war. 

Who leads this army and who makes these plans? 
Is this the work of man or God? 

General, behold Dunois, 
He comes from Orleans and he will explain. 

Then let Dunois in God his name, explain 
Why the army is on this side the river, 
Which I commanded to advance on that? 

The English have erected barriers great 

And strong. No force can conquer till it starves 

Them out. 

That means months of waiting, and God's cause, it 
Must not wait. 

General, we acted as we believe you would 
Have done, had you been there. 

Come, Dunois, tell me now 
Of what more use the army can be here 
Than if 'twere at the bottom of the sea? 
You would deceive me, who've deceiv'd yourselves, 
Unless God interpose none other can. 
Hence in his name I now command you march 


The army back, unto Burgundy's gate, 
Then on to Talbot and the English as 
At first I gave command. 

Who is the man on yonder van 
Bound hand and foot? 

LIEUTENANT: A mighty soldier, General, a giant 

Call'd the " Dwarf.'* Tomorrow he'll be hanged. 

MAID: Hanged? For what? 

LIEUTENANT: Desertion, General, 

He sought leave to go see his dying wife; 
It was not granted, yet he went. 

MAID: But he returned again. 


But not until the men were on the march. 

MAID: He a deserter! 

Name of God! Bring him to me 
His wrists, they're bleeding. I will bandage them. 

LIEUTENANT: Nay, General, nay! 

Such work must not be done by thee. 

MAID: De par le Dieu: Don't I know how? 

If I had bandaged them, they'd not have bled. 
If given freedom, will you fight for France? 

"DWARF:" I'll fight for you, General, you'll be my France. 
LIEUTENANT: Nay, General, it must not be! 


MAID: Why not? 

LIEUTENANT: This man is sentenced to be hanged. 

MAID: What if he is? Is not my word supreme? 

This man, he's free! Loose ye his cords! 

'Tis brilliant night. 

The clouds have scattered and the silvery moon 
Pours down her queenly beauty on the towers, 
And palaces and domes of ancient Orleans. 
O glorious scene! A surging sea of life! 
Torch lights, as 'twere a firmament of stars. 

MULTITUDE: She comes! she comes! The Maid of God! 

Behold her face! Tis beautiful. See how 
It shines, as with celestial light 

and so 

The people kneeling kiss'd her garment's hem 
And hailed her as the one from heaven sent. 
With bugles, bands, sweet chiming bells, loud guns. 
The Maid of God was given royal 
Welcome into old Orleans. 

MAID: French blood is flowing and 

The call to action comes. Up gallant men ! 
On to the fight! Follow your flag ! Behold 
The fleur-de-lis! 

D'ALENCON: Our General's first experience in the fight. 
See to it, Dunois, she stays in the rear. 


Their care is vain 

For when the French overpowered are falling back 
She rides in scorn of danger, to the front. 
Loud, brave and clear, above the noise of war 
Comes her command: 

MAID: Forward brave men ! Follow 

Your leader and her banner white! Follow 
To battle and to victory! 

At sight of her, they rushed upon the foe 
Rushed forward with the force of ocean waves, 
Sweeping the astounded, terror-stricken 
Englishmen away. That giant "Dwarf!" 
God! how he fought. 'Twas wonderful, the way 
In which he wielded his great battle-ax. 
At every stroke an English helmet and 
Its owner fell. Until the enemy 
In wild confusion, quit the field. 

MAID: Another fight, you ask and now? 

Why men we've but begun. 

DUNOIS: At this time, General, 

It were madness to advance. More wisdom 
In delay. I'll call our forces back. 

MAID: You'll obey my orders, Dunois, 

And play no longer into English hands. 
Waste no more time! Bid bugles sound assault! 

Another victory for the French was won. 
Another and yet more, until the last 
Great battle came. Jeanne had foretold this fight, 
Its outcome and the wound she would receive. 

CATHERINE: You say you will be wounded 

On the morrow, Jeanne? 

MAID: Yes, Catherine, on the morrow; 

I've so informed my parents and my friends. 

CATHERINE: How do you know this thing, my dear? 

MAID: As I know other things. 

My voices, they have told me so. 

CATHERINE: Then you must keep out of the fight. 

MAID: No, no, my dear, I must go in, 

Since on my leadership the fight depends. 

CATHERINE: But if you're wounded you may die, dear Jeanne. 
MAID: To die for France is gloriously to live. 



The fight was bloody, fierce and long. For hours 
The tide of battle ebbed and flowed. English 
Fought like devils and the French the same. What 
Battle strength! What warrior s skill on either 
Side was shown! What clashing of the blades! 
What thrusts and flashing of that glittering steel! 
What wild, loud shouts of fighting, and what groans 
Of dying men! And o'er it all one voice 
Their General's voice in clear, commanding tones, 
Inspiring her brave men, until a sword- 
Thrust brought their gallant leader to the ground. 
A shout of wildest exultation from 
The enemy arose. 

Seize, quickly seize 
And bind her with strong cords. In binding her 

You're binding France! Daughter of Satan and 
Enchantress of thy breed, thy life is mine! 

// would have been, but for the giant "Dwarf 
Who sprang with strength immortal to her side, 
Mowing the British like afield of grain. 
God! what moments these! If she were captured, 
France was lost, her people slaves. The mighty 
Giant bore her safely from the fray. 

MESSENGER: The French are being overpowered; 
They're beating a retreat. 

MAID: Retreat! The French! In God his name, no! No! 

Exclaims the wounded Maid, leaping upon 
Her horse, the crimson stream still gushing from 
Her wound. She seemed inspired beyond restraint, 
As madly she dashed to the battle's front, 
Calling aloud: 

MAID: Brave soldiers, follow me, 

The fight is God's and his the victory! 

The French rose in their might; fought like demons 
Till the British fled and France was saved. 

MULTITUDE: Maid of Orleans! Maid of God! Savior of 

France! Saint of Lorraine, Sister of our Lord! 

In chorus from the multitude arose. 
'Twas like unto music of the sea. 

Then Jeanne, with her brave army march' d 


Triumphant into Tours. There she was met 
And welcomed royally by Charles. 






All hail! All hail! 

Thou God-anointed heroine, said Charles. 
The songs of angels are within thy heart! 
Thine is the victory! the victory! 
Kind heaven speaks the word. O thou, my well- 
Beloved child, hear thou my praise! My life 
Would at this moment give itself for thee! 
Since royal honors are indeed thy due, 
Here in the presence of this august court 
I bid thee name thy just reward. 

Gentle dauphin, 

I have but one request to make of thee, 
'Tis this; march with me unto Rheims and there 
Receive thy crown. 

To Rheims, brave Jeanne! To Rheims! Impossible! 
It is a way beset with countless foes. 

I, with my army will advance before. 
I'll clear the way of all thy foes, as God 
His lightning and his thunder clear the air. 

Time General, time to think 
Then I will answer you. 

The time, O gentle dauphin, is so short, 
And there's so much to do, and I I have 
But one brief year to live. 

One year to live! 
Why speak you so, dear Jeanne ? 

MAID: Because my voices, they have told me this. 

CHARLES: My child, you have got fifty years, 

Aye, fifty long and happy years to live. 
Upon thy shoulder I now place my sword 
And by this accolade do join thee and 
Thy family and their kin descendants born 
In wedlock, to the royal house of France, 
And give unto the females of thy line 
The power their husbands to ennoble when 
Of less degree an honor not bestow'd 
On anyone till now. Arise, Jeanne d'Arc. 
Henceforth surnamed Du Lis! 





The city was a scene of wild delight, 

Of splendor opulent and unapproach'd. 

Proud Rheims had witness 'd many a glorious day, 

But none like this. The vast cathedral in 

Its splendor shone; sweet, mellow chimes pour d from 

Its ponderous towers and moving down its broad, rich aisles 

That august throng victorious generals, captains 

And ecclesiastics in their gorgeous 

Bright array; the great Archbishop leading 

In robes of power. Sentinels riding on their 

Shining livery, bearing aloft the 

Feudal banners bright and proud and high. 

Never a scene in Rheims so glorious. 

The signal for the royal march was given; 

The silence broken by sweet music from 

Four hundred shining silver trumpeters 

Then at the towering archway of the west, 

Came Charles and Jeanne advancing side by side 

With peers and bishops in their royal train. 

Kneeling at the altar, all glorious in 

Full splendor of its light and in presence 

Of that august multitude, the dauphin 

Was anointed with the holy oil, the 

Ancient crown of Dagobert placed on his 

Royal brow, and Charles was King of France! The 

Maid's fond dream fulfilled she sought not royal 

Honors or reward; only release. 

Gentle King, on bended knee, she pleads: My 
Work, with God his help is done. You have been 
Crown'd King at Rheims. O, give me now your 
Peace; and in that peace permit thy servant 

To return unto my humble home; my 
Mother old and poor, who needs me much. 

The King assisted Jeanne unto her feet. 
Confirm d the royal honors heretofore 
Bestowed and said: 

KING: Great Maid of God, demand 

What now thou wilt and unto thee it shall 
Be given, aye, though its granting make my 
Kingdom poor. 

MAID: O gentle King, 

My one and only wish is this, that thou 
Release my struggling, poor Domremy from 

The heavy burdens of tax. 


KING: 'Tis done, great Maid 

Domremy is hereby released from tax 
Forever and a day. What more dost thou 
Require? Speak and say on. 

MAID: That's all, my gentle King; save to return. 

MAID: Not yet brave soldiers, can we lay down arms. 

My King may not release his servant now. 
Our glorious Paris is in Britain's grasp 
We'll march and take it too, in God his name! 

Before that final march Compiegne, Beauvais 
And many strongholds of the British fell. 
Paris awaiting to surrender at the 
Maid's command is not allowed. For /0, 'tis 
Treason! now deep, dark and damnable! The 
Wretched coward whom she crowned and saved has 
Played into the British hands. Yet bravely 


Did she fight, divinely win, until her 
Time had come. Then overpowered and 
Captured in the fierce battle of Mar guy, 
Jeanne cTArc was led a prisoner to the camp 
Of Burgundy. 

The first strange chapter in her life was closed! 
The second to begin, aye and to end 
In tragedy more deep and dark and sad 
Than only that of Christ and Calvary's. 



MAID: Besieged! ah! poor Compiegne! 

Women and children massacred! And I 
Did give my promise to de Flavy, that I 
Would come and help him in the fight. But here 
I am, a prisoner, in this stronghold 
Of dark Beauvais. Mother of Christ! Thy help! 

Escaped, recaptured, yet in spirit she 

Fought, and in that mighty spirit led till 

Victory had come to Compiegne and to 

France. The British thus enraged to frenzy, 

Believed her magic spell inspired the French^ 

That power must be destroyed, 

Or Britain's cause was lost. To kill the 

Body were an easy thing, but such 

A soul as hers released would make the French 


MAID: You may kill me, brave Jeanne 

Told them, but you never will get France. 
Then angry Stafford drew his murderous blade, 
But Warick siezed his arm and held him back. 

WARICK: Thou fool! he yelled, kill not the Maid now in 

Her purity. Her unstain'd spirit would 
Unto those superstitious French become 
A power divine and irresistible. 








Then, Warick, tell me, in the devil's name 
What shall we do? 

Know you not, Stafford, that she hath been sold ? 
Sold by Luxemburg to Burgundy, aye 
For the ransom of a queen. Now let the 
Nation's enemy be made to serve the 
Nation she hath well-nigh destroyed. 

That were a boon, but how, my Warick, how? 

Hand her right over to the holy church, 

Demanding she be tried for heresy. 

There she'll be branded and, perchance, be burn'd 

For being a sorceress, idolatress 

And witch. 

A devilish bonny scheme, my friend, 
I ft can be worked. 

The way is plain, at least to me. 
Pierre Cauchon is aching to become 
The Archbishop of Rouen. Winchester 
In like manner, thirsts for Jeanne d'Arc's life. 

God's bones! my Warick, but that were a trade 
If if only it could be 

Leave that to Cauchon and to Winchester 
To La Tremoille and Loyseleur. Save in 
His Majesty from hell, they're not surpass'd. 

Ah, Warick! but all France is with the Maid; 

She holds the people by her magic spell. 

Would Charles keep silent, whom she crown'd and saved? 

WARICK: Therein, O Stafford, lies your big mistake 

French warriors are jealous of great Jeanne; 
She has eclipsed their glory like the earth 
The sun's. And know you not, Charles, even now 
Is fast in England's clutch? Think you a man 
Like Charles will risk his crown, his traitorous soul, 
To save e'en she, who made him King? Not he! 


The holy court is now convened 
The Sanhedrin of France. It is composed 
Of many wise and saintly and great men. 
Unto its mandates all must bow; from its 
Decisions there's but one appeal. The 
Maid of God, a prisoner in chains , stands 
Now before a court of enemies 
The triple -chinned^ black-hearted Bishop of 
Beauvais, her fiercest foe, presiding Judge. 
No one permitted to appear or speak 
A single word in her defense. Yet in 
Her purity and strength, with wisdom more 
Than man's endowed, she put the cowards of 
The "holy " church to shame, and sent them down 
To infamy forever and a day. 




My holy Judge, and 
Consecrated servants of our Lord: 
You've found his servant guilty of the crime, 
Which merits death. 

Since no one's been allowed here to appear 
Or speak in her behalf, in God his name, 
May not his Maid speak for herself? 

I see no purpose that your speech may serve. 

And dare you deny my right to speak 
Who have denied an advocate? How dare 
You now condemn to death the one whom you 
Already did prejudge and so condemn? 

MULTITUDE: Let her speak. 

MAID: You find me guilty of the crime of death! 

I thank my God that your decision does 
Not make true my guilt. You ask me now 
To tell you more about the voices you 
Call " false." In God his name, what may I say 
That I've not said before the holy court? 
I was a gentle little maid in lone 
Domremy of Lorraine taught young to pray, 
To say my creed, to love my holy church 
And priest, and to confess my sins. I knew 
No world beyond the quiet hills and vales 
O'er which I led my sheep, tended my lambs. 
I was a happy and contented child, 
Until a spirit strange disturbed my peace. 
Twas when I heard men tell how our dear France 
Was being assail'd by foreign foes; and how 
My dauphin, he would be obliged to flee; 
The ancient crown of Charlemagne adorn 
A foreign brow; our harvests and our homes 
Laid waste; our sacred soil turned red with blood 
The blood of our dear slain; our glorious France 
The vassalage of foreign power could I 
Find ease or rest in my dear country's peril ? 
Upon the hillsides of my lowly care 
I pray'd, I pleaded and I importuned, 
Aye, agonized with God, that he would send 
Deliverance to France. While thus I did 
Beseechingly implore and plead, a thing 
Took place more wonderful than words can tell. 
The hills and trees became most strangely clothed 
With light and life, and I was lifted up 
And borne along, as if on wings. 
'Twas then Archangel Michael, he appeared 
And spake to me. At first I was afraid, 
But the angel, he was O, so kind and 


Sweet. I loved to meet and talk with him, which 
I did day by day. " I am Archangel 
Michael, sent from God," he said, " to tell thee 
That thou art his Maid the one appointed 
To deliver France.'* My pleas of youth and 
Ignorance, that none would believe or follow 
Me could not avail. "Your God will guide," the 
Angel said, "his Maid, she must obey." 
The holy Virgin Mother likewise came 
To me; she sweetly warned me to obey. 
You know what happened what has come to pass. 
The French, they triumphed, though but few and weak. 
With God his help we've overcome the strong; 
France, if she has not been betray'd, is saved; 
Charles, he is crowned King; Rheims proudly stands! 
Orleans is free! Compiegne secure; where now 
The boasting British with their wealth and power? 
Has not our God wrought wonders through his Maid? 
You will condemn and burn me at the stake, 
But in that very flame I'll pray for you, 
And God's good angel will be there to shield 
My soul. And though you kill me, you will not 
Get France. I'll be her guardian angel in 
The years to come. 

WINCHESTER: Congratulations, Bishop of Beauvais! 

Exclaimed the Cardinal great Winchester 

WINCHESTER: The trial surely was a grand success. 

You've branded Jeanne a wicked sorceress, 

A witch and an idolatress, in league 

With Satan and the spirits of the damn'd, 

And you've done well. For this, I'm told, you seek 

The great archbishopric. Seek you that honor 

At the hand of Charles? 


BISHOP; Why not, Your Eminence, since Charles, he is 

The lawful King of France? 

WINCHESTER: But tell me, Cauchon, what worth or honor 
In an archbishopric conferred upon 
You by a king crowned by a witch? That 
Honor to be genuine, must come from 
England's King. 

BISHOP: Your Eminence, 

Jeanne stands up boldly for her King and France. 
The people, they do largely stand with her, 
Claiming that she has fought with God and won 
Against Great Britain, which fought with its hosts 
And lost. Charles is to France her lawful King. 
What he bestows is genuine to her. 

WINCHESTER: But not to England or her clergy or 

Her King. Therefore what honor in a thing, 
Which England honors not? And when the French 
Become convinced that she who crowned their King 
Is but a sorceress and witch, what then ? 
A sorry plight for you and Charles. 

BISHOP: In such a case, 

What would Your Eminence advise? 

WINCHESTER: You've gone so far, you now must go the length. 
Cut clear from Charles. He's only King in name. 
Hurl thou that female bone of all this damn'd 
Contention to the dogs. Give England that 
Which she desires and she will grant the boon 
That Cauchon seeks. 

BISHOP: Would England grant it for her life? 

WINCHESTER: Give me her ashes and I pledge you, sir, 
The great archbishopric of Rouen shall 
Be yours. 

BISHOP: Aye, Cardinal, but there's the rub 

In dealing with this Jeanne, we deal with France. 

WINCHESTER: But France will not defend a sorceress 
And a witch! 

BISHOP: True, Your Eminence, and yet 

E'en our decision does not make it so. 
His Holiness, the Pope alone, is to 
Our folks infallible. If only we 
Could make the Maid confess unto the things 
Whereof she hath in holy council been 
Condemned, we then could burn her at the stake. 

WINCHESTER: You have the means for that, Cauchon, 

As God and devil know. Torture and flame, 
Fear of eternal fire. What instruments 
Hath not the Holy Church with which to force 
Offenders of her iron will ? 

BISHOP: But Jeanne is fearless, believing she is right. 

She'll die, but not confess. 

WINCHESTER: Tis your mistake 

She's weary of her prison cage and chains; 
She loathes the company of vulgar men; 
She longs to be restored again unto 
The Holy Church. Assure her these rewards 
In sight of torture, fire and hell. She'll yield. 

BISHOP: But that is not to rid ourselves of Jeanne. 

WINCHESTER: And see you not a farther scheme, Cauchon? 
BISHOP: How can a man see through a wall of stone? 

WINCHESTER: Easily so, when someone makes a hole. 



I see the wall, but not the hole. 

WINCHESTER: Your skull is thicker, Pierre, than your neck. 
Come listen here: Prepare a statement mild 
Enough for her to sign, through fear of fire 
And pain and hell. Likewise a greater and 
More fatal one. And when she is about 
To sign 


I see, Your Eminence, I see 

Clear through the wall. 

BISHOP: You see the rack, O, Jeanne, 

They say its pain is hell. Now just confess 
With your own lips declare the findings of 
The court are true. Submit your soul unto 
The Holy Church and be forgiven. 

MAID: Nay, Pierre Cauchon! 

Not e'en this rack, these chains, this torture or 
This prison hell, can make God's Maid confess 
To what is wrong. And if by pain I should 
Be forced to say aught else, I'd always say 
Thereafter, that it was the pain, not I 
That spoke. 

WINCHESTER: She will confess and she'll recant in sight 
Of fire, pain, death and endless doom. 

// is the Holy Church of St. Ouen. 

CITIZEN: What mean the open gates; the glaring lights; 

The many toilers rushing to and fro; 
Those countless torches turning night to day? 


OFFICER: O, ill-informed and ignorant, 

That knoweth not what is on every tongue. 

CITIZEN: You mean the burning of Jeanne d'Arc? 

OFFICER: What else? 

CITIZEN: We hear no less denials of the same; 

We'd learn the truth. 

OFFICER: The truth is this: 

Upon the morrow ere yon bell strikes out 
High noon, Jeanne d'Arc, the witch of France, shall here 
Be burned alive! 



The martyr s day has dawned! 
The royal guests and holy men, highest 
Of rank in church and state, are there. What 
More for their sweet comfort could have been? Rich 
Purple canopies to shield from rain and 
Sun, soft carpeting, cushioned seats of ease. 
Here on a special platform, higher raised, 
Recline the Bishop of Beauvais, 
His Royal Eminence, the great English 
Cardinal, with their renowned colleagues. 
Above the platform in its horror stands 
The grizzly, frowning stake of pain and death; 
Beneath it glows the ruddy, burning coals. 
Fagots of wood, the executioners 
In purple robes arrayed, while reaching far 
Beyond, a level sea of human heads. 

The martyr s hour has come! 

Look yonder! " Lo! she comes!" they cry. y Tis she! 
The Maid of God, with English escort from 
Her iron cage. Clank, clank the chains upon 
Her wrists and feet. Though worn and weak, she's forced 
To walk, dragging her chains. That heart of stone 
The brutal Loyseleuris by her side, 
His foul mouth whispering in the Maid's pure ear. 

Confess, O Jeanne! 
Abjure, recant, and so you shall obtain 
Forgiveness of your sins, protection in 
The Holy Church, deliverance from hell. 

MAID: Confess, you say, 





Confess to what a lie, to something which 
I know would not be true ? No, no ! Not I ! 

Confess, poor child, and be you saved, 
Came voices from the pleading priests. 

Think well 

What this will mean to you. No longer in 
An iron cage; no longer dragging on 
Your weary feet and wrists those galling chains; 
No more in company with vulgar men, 
But in a woman's prison with her care. 
And then your soul, dear child, your soul within 
The shelter of the holy church. 

Name of God! What do you mean ? 
Aren't they about to burn me here and now? 

Not if you do as we require. 
Confess, recant, and you shall not be burn'd. 

WINCHESTER: She's weakening now, Your Eminence, 

Weakening in body and in mind. The rack 
Is God's own instrument, by which to force 
Offenders to his will. 

BISHOP: The fire, the fire, 

Stir up the fire, 

Commands Cauchon, speaking 
Unto the executioners beneath. 
His coarse and brutal voice rose with the flame 
Reading the sentence of her cruel death. 
Exhausted, weak and hardly conscious now. 
She dropped upon her knees and said in low 
And feeble tones: 

MAID: I do submit. 

The studied action was both swift and sure. 
The lying document was then withdrawn. 
The long and fatal one slipped in its stead. 
The Vampire of the English King then gave 
Sure guidance to the hand that was not taught 
To write. Thus was she forced to falsely swear 
Herself to be a sorceress , witch, and an 
Idolatress, in league with Satan, and 
The spirits of the damnd. 

BISHOP: I now declare 

Her excommunication is hereby 

The Bishop said, and Jeanne's face shone 
As with a holy light. From her worn soul 
A burden jell. 'Twas what she longed to hear. 
How sad what followed, speech can never tell. 

BISHOP: But that she do repent 

Of her dark crimes, commit those crimes no more. 
I sentence her unto perpetual 
Imprisonment, the bread of anguish there 
To eat and water of affliction drink. 

MAID: Take me unto the woman's prison, sir, 

As solemnly you did agree to do. 

BISHOP: Take her 

Unto the prison whence she came, 

The fiend replied. The die was cast, the deed 
Was done and innocence once more betrayed 
Into the hands of sinful men. 
Postponed! The burning of the Maid! 


The feast of rarest joy not to be served? 
Curses and railings fill the air. Cauchon s in 
Danger of the mob. Few know as yet the 
Subtle secret of the studied scheme. 

BISHOP: Subdue your wrath, he whispers, and I will 

Explain. We must not burn her now one 
Other step remains. You shall not be 
Denied your pleasure, friends. 'Twill be the 
Sweeter when it comes. 

WINCHESTER: Explain your tactics, Cauchon, or by the 
Crucified, you '11 be the victim of a 
Howling mob. Tell why you have postponed the 
Burning of the Maid? 

BISHOP: To burn her now 

May mean destruction of our worthy cause. 

WINCHESTER: Why so, Cauchon, in God or devil's name? 

BISHOP: 'Tis for the lack of unanimity. 

Thousands will believe the Maid's confession forced 

And hold her innocent. They'll not accept 

Our version of her guilt. Therefore to them 

Her martyr spirit will in fancy spring 

From out its ashes to avenge her death 

And bloody revolution will then take place. 

You see, she's sworn, with other things, that she'll 

Abandon male attire on penalty 

Of death. To lapse in this will mean her death 

By legal right. Her lapse can easily be 

Achieved. Leave it to me. 


Your robe, my Jeanne, 
I've brought your robe myself, because 
I shrink to see this vulgar shame upon 

Your sex, my child. And then you've sworn you will 

Abandon male attire on penalty 

Of death. See to it that you do not lapse. 

MAID: My robe! The Bishop! You astonish me. 

What could it mean? A servant's act -performed 
By great Cauchon. Was it a change of heart? 

WINCHESTER: But Bishop, what if Jeanne d'Arc does not lapse? 
BISHOP: O thousand fools! What's easier than that? 

Then he arranged it with the guard and lejt. 
O happy Bishop! with his purple face 
Aglow. The long sought honor now within 
His grasp. His cup oj joy Jull to the brim. 

MAID: 'Tis morning, 

Aye, and still my iron cage and chains. O, 

Virgin Mother! what a night I've spent; but 

Something to console a female robe a 

Robe brought to me by Cauchon himself; a 

Sign perchance, he will relent and make his 

Promise good. Ah, yes, I see the robe, its 

Gone. The male attire is in its stead. I 

Might have known. 'Tis Cauchon 's final triumph. He's 

Won the game! "Poor Jeanne, she's lapsed!" Alas! 

What other could she do? Jehsus Maria! 

MESSENGER: Lapsed! Lapsed! 

Aye, Jeanne has lapsed! 

A h, blessed music in 
The Bishop's ears! He's quickly on the scene. 


BISHOP: I see you've 

Lapsed, my Jeanne, 

He said, his blotched, purple 
Face all wreathed in smiles, rejoicing in his 
Victim's grief. 

You've sworn you would abandon 
Male attire on penalty of death. 

She offered no excuse; she made no charge 
Against the guard, nor yet apportioned blame. 
She simply said: 
MAID: You also failed to keep 

Your promise unto me. You did not send 
Me to the woman's prison, as you said 
You'd do. 

MARGEURIE: Something suspicious here 

A wrong has been committed on the Maid, 

Declared the angry Margeurie, one of 
Her judges in the trial. 

BISHOP: O, thousand devils! Will you shut up. 

Exclaimed the Bishop, in a fit of rage. 

Ah! Jeanne, how true thy words! 
His final trump was played; the game was won. 
Believing that her end is near, the Maid 
Dictates the last sweet message to the loved 
At home. 

THE MAID'S Dear mother, father, and my loved ones, all, 
LAST LETTER: O strive with God, his help, to bear the news 

The last love message from your own poor Jeann< 


The last she'll send from out her iron cage. 
Last night, the holy vision, it came back to me. 
'Twas sweet Domremy of Lorraine and I 
Was there, a happy child again, leading 
My sheep, my tender lambs, o'er hillsides green 
With grass, fragrant and beautiful with flowers 
Saw my sweet home, the loved ones as of yore 
Pierre, Margot, Mengette, Gerard, my Louis and 
The others as they were, when cares were small 
And sorrows had not come. Hands join'd, we danc'd 
Around the Fairy Tree, sang our dear song, 
Arbre Fee la Bourlemont. Once more the 
Voices spake to me and said: " Dear Jeanne sweet 
Martyrdom must be the fitting crown for 
Such a life as thine." 
I saw the stake, the flame, the multitude; 
But the angel, he was in the flame to 
Shield my soul and bear my spirit home. 
'Tis hard to say good-bye 
Good-bye to my own dear Domremy, where 
My heart abides my loved ones too; my sheep, my 
Lambs, my precious friends. O, God! 'tis hard, 
But then, 'tis sweet to go from grief and pain 
Unto my home, where you shall come ere long. 
Father, forgive these poor, benighted men, 
Forgive them, for they know not what they do. 

'Tis morning and 

The holy Friar's voice is heard, speaking 
Softly unto Jeanne. 

MAID: A message, Father? 

I know you've brought a message unto me 
I read that message on your face. 








Ah! my poor child, 
I wonder can you bear the news I bring? 

In low, sweet tones, she answered, 


My child, I have been sent here to 
Prepare thy soul for death. 

Father Ladvenue, 
Did you say for death? 

For death, dear child, aye, and for life as well. 
What kind of death, good Father, shall it be? 
I find it not in my sore heart to tell. 

Yes, holy Father, tell me, for 
Tis better I shall know, I'll bear the pain 
Through God, his grace. 

By fire, by fire, poor child, 
Thy soul must pass to God. 

Tis cruel, Father! 
O! so cruel and unjust. In God his 
Name, how can they treat me so, I whom they 
Hailed as the deliverer of France ? Where 
Now the shouting throngs, their voices like to 
Ocean waves! Where now the glaring lights, the 
Bugles sweet, and bands, loud praise of hosts, 
Honors and emoluments of kings ? 

Tis but the way of this poor world, dear Jeanne; 
This empty, weak and vacillating world. 

There is no confidence to be reposed, 
Save in our Lord most High. 

FRIAR: Ah! D'Alencon, 'tis thou. 

Speak to the child who is of heart so sad. 
Speak low, I warn, remembering that thou 
Too art a prisoner escaped, and doomed 
If heard. Speak low. 

D'ALENCON: Doomed if heard ! 

Then be it so. To die with her, it would 
Be heaven. To live without her, hell. 

I hear the voices yonder 
Priests chanting for her soul. 

FRIAR: Nay, D'Alencon, 

It is the clerk, who reads the charges to 
Her day by day. 'Tis but a portion of 
The torture they inflict. When he has done 
You then can have my time. I will confess 
Her at the stake. 

D'ALENCON: The stake! 

O Christ and Mary, has it come to that? 

MAID: Ah! D'Alencon, how sweet thy voice, 

And thy dear face in sadness, doubly so. 

D'ALENCON: Aye, Jeanne, thy nearness, e'en in sorrow makes 
The bliss of heaven my own. 

MAID: O, tell me now, dear D'Alencon, 

Why did I not take warning, when you said 
The voices were delusions and a snare? 


D'ALENCON: No, no, my Jeanne, 

For that I grieve, how deeply, words can't tell. 
You were so happy, so triumphant in 
Your faith, until I blurred it with the mist 
Of doubt. Let not, I pray, that skeptic speech 
Of tongue, which never was of heart, becloud 
Thy mind in this sad hour in which thy soul 
Must pass to God. 

MAID: But see, my dear, 

They come not to me again. 
Why do they leave me in this hour of trial? 
Where once the angel's voice spake unto me, 
Now all is silent and an empty void. 
Where once my spirit rose to heaven and God 
It falls to earth beneath its broken wings. 

D'ALENCON: Thy faith, sweet one, will not forsake thee in 

The flame. Twill come again to thy great soul, 
Which did impart the same to mine. Therefore 
Believe, dear one, as thou hast taught 
Me to believe, as now, through thee, I do 

He kneeled beside her in a silent prayer 
A -prayer not spoken^ but a prayer of power. 

MAID: O, D'Alencon, the light, the light! 

The morn of hope in beauty breaks. It is 
More glorious now. 'Twas but a little cloud 
Between my spirit and the righteous sun. 
Thou hast dispell'd it and behold, a dove. 


A heavenly radiance was upon her face; 
A light celestial in her upturned eyes. 

MAID: Strange, D'Alencon, but no less dear, 

That God should send you to revive her faith, 
Who once did fear and pray for thine. 

D'ALENCON: A last sweet word, my Jeanne. 

My heart is burning in its love for thee! 
Love that's immortal and can never die. 
E'en in our childhood days, I loved you then. 
Beside the Fairy Tree where, hand in hand, 
The children danced and sang; and in the fields 
You watch'd your gentle flocks and lead your lambs; 
In all those happy days when Jeanne she was 
Their leader, life and prophetess. Likewise, in later years, 
When strong men bowed at your command; when 
Cannon boomed and swords clashed and God's 
Brave Maid was never in the rear; and on 
The moonlit night I stood at guard, beheld 
Thy face in slumber, dear and sweet; when in 
Thy dreaming thou didst speak my name, and I 
Crept forth to kiss thy hand, a vision 
Rose between. A voice spake in my soul and 
Said: "Stand back, thou venturesome! This place is 
Holy ground. The angels keep their vigils 
Round God's Maid." 

MAID: Thy words, great soul, O how they strengthen me! 

D'ALENCON: Ah! Jeanne, 

In this strange hour so sweetly sad, 'tis love 
Of soul, and in that love, I fold thee now, O 
Noblest of womankind unto my heart 
Of hearts. Let me behold the spirit light 
In thy dear eyes, where dwells eternal peace. 

MAID: O noble soul, 

Who hast so known and loved me, as 
None other hast. 'Tis worth the pain to know 



The man thou art. The spirit union! ah! it 

Is the only and the dearest one The 

Union in earth's sorrow formed, holds heaven's 

Deepest joy. There can henceforth be neither 

Grief nor pain for me. The King might offer 

Me his crown; the world its gold, I would not 

Now accept them for this deeper joy. 

Ah! D'Alencon, great husband of my soul, 

In heaven above, where all is pure and good 

And true, I'll be your Jeanne, your own sweet bride. 

My bride! My spirit's bride! 
Aye, Jeanne! That were a heaven indeed to me! 
Oh holy Maid, so terrible in war; 
So beauteous encircled in the beams 
Of peace ! 

MAID: And so they've sent you, brother Martin, to 

Bring Jeanne. The bells! O, aye, I know well wh 
They are. The executioners. They told 
Me that those bells were ringing for the mass. 
They did not know how sweet the sound to me. 
I fear no more the flame. God's angel stands 
Within, and, in its glow I see the path 
Which leads to heaven and home and rest. 


The scene is changed. 
It is Old Market by St. Saviour s Church 
High noon on Wednesday after Trinity. 
The royal, great and holy men are there. 
Both guests and multitude more numerous, 
Because there'll be no disappointment now. 
Again the grizzly, frowning stake appears 
All wait their victim with a brutal joy. 
Many are happy, but one supremely so 
His blotched, purple face aglow, like to 
The coals beneath the stake. A flash of fire, 
An hour of pleasure for himself and guests, 
A meager heap of ashes and 0, then 
The great archbishopric of old Rouen! 
It is the hour! the hour of tragedy 
For France, and England's immortal shame. 
The silence deepens and the multitude 
Appears transfixed, as if in living death. 
She comes! she comes! the holy Maid, and in 
Her clanking chains. No royal escort, king 
Or honors now. No wild rejoicing 
Like at old Orleans, when, Charles was crowned, and 
France redeemed. 

She comes, she comes, in 

Robes of purest white arrayed. A light divine is on 
That angel face. It's heavenly beautiful. 

MULTITUDE: Sister of Christ! Savior of France! Child of 
The Highest! 

Broke forth in chorus like the 
Sea, from thousands, falling on their knees in 

Penitence and prayer. A feeling strange and 
Indescribable fell over all. Ten 
Thousand men shed tears, e'en Cauchon ceas'd 
To smile. Winchester wept; his tears have since 
Been dried in hell. 

Bishop of Beauvais, thy victim's 
Going to a shameful death thou unto 
Renown. Ah, y twill not be what now it seems. 
Her bed of death is fire; thine will be down 
Immortal honor her reward; but thine, 
Eternal infamy. The church she loved, 
Will give her sainthood, which now gives her death. 
The same will brand thee, its arch-hypocrite 
Unto the end of time. 

KING: Aye, Catherine, 'tis the very day 

And this the hour of poor Jeanne's martyrdom. 
And I, the coward, whom she crowned and saved 
Concealed behind these walls of stone conceal'd 
From human gaze, but not from conscience and 
Remorse. Go, Catherine, go and leave me to 
My bitter fate. 

CATHERINE: And dost thou thrust me out 

Into a heartless world? I, whom thou didst make 
The scapegoat of thy crimes? 

KING: Ah! Catherine! by thy own confession, thou 

Didst lie, lie cruelly about the Maid. 
Lie, when thou saidst the vision warned me not 
To enter Rheims and in all thou didst say 
Against Jeanne d'Arc. O, God! what might I not 
Have been, had I not yielded to the tempter's voice? 

CATHERINE: Thou ill-begotten wretch in garb of king! 

Blaming the woman thou hast made thy tool 
And seeking to avenge her for thy crimes. 

KING: The child should be immune from parent crime 

And I am pierced with taunts of blameless shame. 
"Tis why my soul has never risen to high 
Resolve. Ye'd not allow me to live down 
My shame and win through noble deeds 
In spite of it, a noble name O, help 
Me heaven, for truly I repent! 

CATHERINE: If thy confession's true, my stricken King, 
One sentence only does our crime deserve 
The sentence of an equal guilt. 

KING: Then, Catherine, 

Let us haste to seek her pardon, whom we 
Both have wronged. 

CATHERINE: Too late, O Charles, 

She's burning now! 

KING: For Christ's sake, Catherine, speak it not! 

Burning and abandoned by the King and 
Country, which she hath redeemed. 
I wonder why this coward soul was ere 
Enshrined in flesh, that it so basely would 
Forsake its truest friend yield up the lamb 
Of God's own flock unto the devil's wolves? 
So stricken this poor conscience now, what will 
It be when Satan toasts it on his splint 
In hell? 

Brave Jeanne ascends the scaffold without fear 
Gentle and radiant y with her upturned 




Face, she stands beside the grizzly , frowning 
Stake; spotless and pure like to an angel 
From the highest heaven. The chains are placed, 
A silent hush falls over all. Heaven 
Is weeping and the earth is sad. 

A dove! I've seen a dove! 

A dove! 

The soldier calls. 

As tremblingly he turns away, smiting 
Upon his breast. 

O cruel flame, 

Streaming upward to destroy, with tongue and 
Teeth of fire and pain of hell, this body, 
Worn and weak! Ah, no! for now I see the 
Light within the light. It may destroy 
My body, but 'twill give my soul release. 
These people only see the flame; they see 
Not God within. The music, ah, the sweet 
And heavenly music that I hear! It must 
Be voices from the choir invisible! 
My angel! O, my blessed angel friend! 
O, thou dost not forsake me in the flame! 
My voices! ah, I hear them speaking to 
Their Jeanne speaking sweetly as before. O 
Yes, my voices they were true; they came from 
God, whose child I am ! I die for France, for 
God, his truth. Father forgive forgive! 
Jehsus Maria. A-m-e-n. 


Here ends Joan of Arc, a dramatic recital 
written by James Henry McLaren, printed 
and published by Paul Elder & Company 
at their Tomoye Press in San Francisco, 
under the care of Ricardo J. Orozco, their 
printer, during the month of June, in the year 
Nineteen Hundred and Seventeen 


Return to desk from which borrowed. 
This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 

7 P 

VI *^ 

MAR 1 5 

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